Arrival From The Gate
by TheJackinati275
Summary: The third war is over, a brittle peace rests over the Alliance and the Horde. But recent events have shaken this peace. Daelin Proudmoore's uprising, Orcish incursions in Alliance territory. But how will the arrival of foreigners from a mystical gate change things?
1. Chapter 1

Synopsis: The third war is over, a brittle peace rests over the Alliance and the Horde. But recent events have shaken this peace. Daelin Proudmoore's uprising, orcish incursions in Alliance territory. But how will the arrival of foreigners from a mystical gate change things?

Note: I will likely make some changes for the Gate side of things, and likely some name changes also. I mean, Pinacolada? Are you fucking serious?

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for my OC's.

* * *

 **Chapter 1:** The beginning. (Prologue)

* * *

Hirpus stood to the side of the great oak table that divided the tent nearly in half, writing down with his stylus a personal recounting of the previous week.

"And within the ides, they had surrendered. I had an arrow lodged in my left shoulder, it was all I earned in that damned war. Zorzal thus 'ended' the rabbit war, but not without my men, who sacrificed themselves dutifully, though vainfully. And of the captives, killed women by women, boy by boy, the rabbit barrens burned, and nothing for my men to bring home, no great spoils, Zorzal having claimed the victory, took all the spoils." The master recounted to his son.

"Ten-thousand curses on him..." His son replied.

"Go, watch from the walls my hour of triumph." His master replied, dismissing his son from his tent. The teenager broke off a piece of the bread he was eating and offered it to the patera before standing. He turned and put his hand to Hirpus's right ear, scratching him as one does a dog, before leaving.

"Hirpus, my armour."

Hirpus, his ears slanting in that distinctively Volralden way of his, slotted the stylus to the side and closed the diptych on which he had been writing and approached his master, who was donned only in his calligae and his padded woolen thorocomachus. Beneath this he wore his tunica, but it could not be seen.

It had been two weeks since Hirpus, his master and his master's army had arrived through the gate. A week ago, a centuria of men under his standard had been ambushed, and thus his master was inclined, through insult of his pride as viri, and insult to that of his whole army… if he did not strike down those who attacked the centuria, and avenge fallen pride and men by the enslavement of the enemy and the devastation of their army. Hirpus didn't know how to feel about this eventuality.

Grabbing the bronze musculata by his paws, Hirpus adjusted the halves to fit over his master's frame before buckling the two halves tight. To this, Hirpus placed the balteus about his master's hip, there was no need for the cingulum militare, as his master's thorocomachus had two levels of thick, embroidered, felted tassels on the bottom and shoulders, with the tassels being a pattern of one red-dyed paired next to a woad-dyed tassel and so on and so forth.

As Hirpus went to gather his master's cloak and fibulae, His master opened the wax diptych and began to read what was written, a faint smile forming on his face. As quickly as it came, it was gone, back to the face of stern stoicism as usual.

Hirpus returned soon after and settled the cloak down over his master's head and pierced the woolen fabric through with the fibulae before locking it.

His master rose at that moment. He walked twelve paces, and arriving at the end of his stitched rawhide tent, created a canopy from the tent flaps.

"Hirpus, follow me. Gather your stylus and wax. You are to write for me in the coming months, should you prove yourself worthy."

Hirpus beamed with happiness and pride.

* * *

The air was cold, the horizon was dark. Campfires blazed from the fortified castrum that had been erected from the night previous, built by the legions from cut planks, her walls filled by loose sand which made the dry-moat which surrounded the castrum, seventeen-feet wide by five-feet deep. And so the castrum occupied many Iugera in space, with bucellatum stored to last two months in the supply tents, perhaps three if rationed out, and enough vinegar to last for perhaps a month when turned into posca.

Doctors were stationed, their tools prepped. Immunes waited in their tents or otherwise watched on, exempt as they were from the battle to come… with the exception of the siege engineers, who by choice of service were expected to be endangered by the arrows, slingstones and crossbow bolts of all the enemy, that they may operate the ballistae and scorpions in the field that they might aid the empire in all her victories.

At the campfires, near the burning embers lay balls of clay, as hot as the fire that heated it.

From the walls lay a host of manuballista, near twenty pointed forth towards the horizon in a northerly direction, angled high, such that their bolts might fall down like thunder from above. Outside of the castrum, nearly two stadions to the left and placed on a high hill lay the remaining number of manuballista and scorpions, pointed also to the opposing bramble-bush fortress. To guard these engines, the five-thousand strong Legio XIII Fidelis Victrix (Of Bellhnago) was placed there. Upon the commencement of the battle, they were to be the first spear, the vanguard, and thus the first to assault the walls.

'Bruuuuuuuuum, Bruuuuuuuuuuummmm bruuuuum'

"Slingers... loose!" Was the order that was shouted through the castrum, as the orders were interpreted from the sound of the Buccina, and thus relayed to those who interpreted the signal into an oral format.

Decimus waited and watched as the auxiliary slingers, a motley collection of human men of the Romalia mountains and orcs from the southernmost region of the range of snow and ice, men selected from locations where a shepherding tradition remained strong, and thus the shepherds there were well accustomed therein to the use of the sling. They selected their longest slings and waited for a slave or assistant to fetch one of the red-hot slingstones from the fires. And when the stone was seated in the water-soaked leather pouches from the iron tongs, the stones were slung in quick procession.

Cracks descended through the castrum, as the sound of the slingers as they slipped the release cord from their grips was much like that of the whip. High the red-hot stones went, streaking in the night air before they began to descend downward in an arc.

Sometimes, if you listened closely enough, you could hear the sound of a rock as it struck against timber, sounding faintly like thunder, though with the distance between the legionary fort and the opposing bramble-bush fortress it was hard to hear.

The bramble-fortress on the other side appeared as though it were blessed by the goddess of fertility. The bramble-bushes were thick and wide… and it would take some time for them to burn down.

"Manuballista, loose!" Came the shrill sound of one of the chief centurions.

Decimus saw the commotion, as a sortie of pigmen made to attack the castrum… in vain. How could fifty pigmen, or perhaps a little more, unaccustomed by armour and bare of clothing, armed with flails and javelins… hope to have any impact? How, when of 12,000 men, 7,000 were safely ensconced by wooden walls?

How rapidly they were repulsed by arrows loosed and glandes slung, how woeful it was brought to them, so quickly that their ugly hides were embeded with the shafts of arrows or had the sharpened ends of glandes sticking into the flesh, leaving a fair number of their companions fallen in the dirt, dead or dying within a span of a moment, their calling out in some pig language that was their own.

Decimus mused to himself, though it was little more than a whisper. "And so, the pig-faced porcupines have donned themselves with arrow-quills."

It was imbecilic, even barbarians and orcs had a better grasp of stratagem, than to run forth as a few against thousands… unless you were gifted by the gods themselves. And without shields to bar the progress of bolts, arrows and glandes, let alone armour, they died quickly.

Soon, warps of column-like smoke rose from the horizon, as streaking red-hot clay slingstones and manuballista bolts formed the weft, slowly rising, slowly descending in arcs. It seems that houses, likely with thatched roofs… were the cause of this smoke.

And, Decimus hoped, should the wind find his favour… the thatched roofs might burn with such an intensity as to engulf the place with tumultuous flame.

Watching the scene before their eyes, you could feel the eagerness for combat with the quaking of mens calligae as they tapped their feet anxiously. And when the commotion became far-too-much to be contained, individual men resorted to singing… until almost all began to sing.

* * *

 **"We are the mules of Italica,**

 **We trample your fields and fuck your wives,**

 **We are the mules of Italica,**

 **We piss on your graves, (Weep whores weep)**

 **We are the mules of Italica,**

 **We are the Virtus of the viri,**

 **Weep wives weep!**

 **We are the mules of Italica."**

* * *

Hirpus's ears slanted slightly downwards in vexation. Decimus saw this and patted him on the head as one would pet a dog. He stopped after a moment.

"Master?" Hirpus mused quietly, to which Decimus replied "Yes."

"Isn't that language rude and vulgar?"

Decimus thought to himself for a moment, contemplating on what he could say to the young slave. "So it is, Hirpus. I have cursed you with Innocence, by giving you a good home and a good life. This is how commoners spe.."

When the men of the legion had quieted down, the orcish voices rung out louder, disturbing Decimus's speech.

* * *

 **"Citizens beware, watch your noble wives,**

 **The brown-haired one, the real 'fucker' of the Hares,**

 **Is leading us today,**

 **So we can fuck your women green!** **"**

* * *

Came the tune from the cohorts miliaria of the orc auxiliary. Decimus could not help but grin internally. How the usage of the word 'fucker', implied that he was the real man responsible for 'fucking over' the Hares. Zorzal, however, was really a fucker of Hares in the literal sense, as many tongues voiced rumors of his predilection for non-human women.

If only Lex scantinia, the law rumoured to have existed in ancient days, were still in effect... because then Zorzal could be tried. Rumours spoke of the way in which his eyes once winked to a male centaur delegate, which suggested something altogether... 'scandalous'. Zorzal quashed those rumours... which only lead them further credence.

Decimus was there during the Rabbit war, he had been the man who raised the orcish auxiliaries, for as he was a governor of the province to the south of the range of snow and ice, It was his right and privilege to do so. And so Decimus, following orders, had lead Legio XII Firmus through ruin and through glory, alongside his orcish auxiliary cohorts. Zorzal… a repulsive man, lead the battle. He was the cause of much death… incompetent as a leader and woefully lacking virtus, he got too many men killed and the majority of legions secretly hated him, except for a few. And now, Zorzal feared him, feared that Decimus, being that he sought the creation of a new 'Demi-citizenship' status for retired non-human Auxiliaries rather than a monetary sum payment... thus Zorzal was afraid, and so was the Senate, of Decimus's rise in popularity.

Hence the words "Fuck your women green." For it was commonly held that if Decimus had his way, he would grant them 'Ius Connubii'. Decimus did not focus very much on that matter as he was focused more on the more mundane things, such as setting out the workings for the provision of some form of grain-dole for Demi-citizens, or of the rights of trading and other such matters, and to provide them with benefits and bonuses that would provide positives that would cause other 'Peregrine' non-humans to seek to become 'Demi-citizens'.

Decimus sighed to himself. Most of the senators loved Zorzal, for they, unlike in ancient days, had long lost their propriety. Their virtus as men, if they could be called as such, was woefully lacking.

Now that there was some quiet, Decimus spoke again. "This is how commoners speak."

* * *

 **War,**

 **War,**

 **War!**

* * *

Was the shouted cheer from Legion XIII Fidelis Victrix… however the alternate translation was "Beautiful, beautiful war!", depending on the usage of the word used.

Say whatever you would about XIII Fidelis Victrix, their shout might be simple, their arrogant bravado overbearing (For they constantly bragged about their supposed valour in the camp), but their lust for violence was always sound and so was their sense of loyalty. And, as the XIII Fidelis Victrix was accustomed to do, which began upon their founding as a unique tradition, was to have minotaur auxiliaries as part of their contubernium as auxiliaries. It was appropriately fitting, given that a goddess of hell was the patron of Bellnahgo.

Minotaurs, when lead well… were hell on the battlefield.

Being interrupted for a third time, Decimus waited before he could speak again. "They wish to be home, Hirpus, yet by the auspices of our emperor, we are charged to explore this strange and foreign land. And so we shall." Decimus pointed out towards the enemy. "They preemptively, and without provocation, ambushed a centuria of my men. I sent a lone envoy, bearing a small gift of silver… to allay any... unforeseen complications that might have arisen to cause such action against my men. He was returned back, headless. For this, there is no excuse. And so the ram has touched the wall, without the ram. No chances, no mercy."

Decimus thought back on the event. One of his centuria fought off an ambush, having been used to encountering surprise attacks from the rabbit war (For which much of his men were veterans of that war), they maintained cohesion, reformed into a square and fought off the opposition by the sword. four men were killed and twelve injured, for though the pig-men were few in number, they were ferocious. All assailants, five in all, where killed. These dead were brought back, such that Decimus and the men might know what they were facing and thus be better prepared.

On the second day, Decimus issued a centaur, from one of the men of the foederati, bearing a gift of one hundred denarii, with the order to find and provide the gift to any leader who presented themself among the pig-men. The pig-men threw his head in a ditch where the ambush first occurred and thus Decimus had casus belli. Lack of knowledge regarding the language and customs of this foreign land notwithstanding, Decimus had only one recourse.

And now, half a week later, he was here in a wooden castrum that bordered the enemy fortification.

Decimus turned to face one of the men on the wall. "Buccinator, signal attack."

'Bruuuuuuuuuuuuum Bruuuuuuuuuuumm brumm bruuum bruuuuuum'

Decimus then turned to face Hirpus. "And now, you will write. Begin with today's date, the nones of Augustus. Today, you write about victory, and stand with the victors to be."

"War War War!" Came the shouted cheer of Legion XIII, having heard their order.

* * *

 **One week later.**

* * *

"He's been captured." Came the gruff voice of the centurion of the second centuria of the fourth cohort of Legio XIII, Graccus of the Volurnii.

"Where is my son! He was last seen near you." Decimus shouted, his face pointed firmly on Graccus.

Hirpus cried out in response. "No!" Hirpus paused, before he pleaded to Decimus. "Please find him, master."

"Shut up!" Decimus shouted to his slave.

Graccus raised his voice. "He went to take a piss, so I sent Kraxuul... or whatever the fuck his minotaur name is, to watch over him. He's one of the auxiliaries over with the Decanus Fulvius, of the seventh contubernia. I can fetch him?"

To stop himself from being overcome by anger, Decimus walked over to a silvered urn and dipped his head in the cool water.

Having dipped his head in the cold water, Decimus reached for a document to his left, finding solace within the words.

"Decimus, my compatriot and loyal friend. I write to you, fearing for your personal safety. My son fears you, politically. He paints you in a bad light and vilifies your name. The senate fears change also, and might act swiftly. I hold all the power in the world, I have the power to stop the senate, but I cannot do the same for my son, and my son could attempt to depose me with the senate at his back, should I raise my voice. For your safety, I am sending you on an expedition, a place for where no harm may befall you, where the knives of traitors and the poison of assassins shall never touch you. Raise your legions and whatever foederati you can summon, and take your family with you. By the Ides, my next message shall hopefully arrive with further instructions. Your friend and Emperor, who thinks most highly of you."

Having been calmed, Decimus offered his reply, and an apology. "Do not cry, Hirpus, for the fate of my son." Decimus then turned to face Graccus. "Captured or not, he is my son. He will return. I will not offer punishment to you, or any of your men."

Graccus replied in a manner completely in-line with the XIIIth. "Like hell. We will bring him back, or failing this I will fall upon my gladius."

Decimus frowned for a moment. "Then you may tell the men of the fourth cohort of Legio XIII, that they are to find my son." Watching as Graccus's face formed up in relief, Decimus dismissed him. "You may leave."


	2. Chapter 2

Synopsis: The third war is over, a brittle peace rests over the Alliance and the Horde. But recent events have shaken this peace. Daelin Proudmoore's uprising, orcish incursions in Alliance territory. But how will the arrival of foreigners from a mystical gate change things?

Note: I will likely make some changes for the Gate side of things, and likely some name changes also. I mean, Pinacolada? Are you fucking serious?

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for my OC's.

* * *

 **Chapter 2:** An iron cage.

* * *

Waning winds blew across the open landscape, and it seemed that for nearly a league in three directions there was naught but tall, verdant grasses, the stalks arching to and fro with the morning breeze. But to the north, that perilous north… where crags and rocks and caves were strewn about as though the god or goddess which had formed the place had but tapped a finger and made it so but had left before administering the final, beautifying touches. Without such, it was an eyesore that besmirched this foreign world… which had been very pretty only a few days ago.

And with the wind, the iron-cage rattles and Lucius's legs feel the cold. There are no wraps of orcish origin that bind around his legs, alas the embrace of finely-woven wool is all that he feels against his flesh, but only towards his shoulder and against his torso to his hips and no further, for he does not wear subligaculum nor braccae, on account of the warm weather, and constantly shifted around to keep his limbs warm.

And Lucius's fate, much like the wind and the cliff and the iron in the bars that hold him, he could feel that he was well within the cool graces of the wheel of fortune… he wondered if his father would ever know, if his spirit would go to the lares to be as guiding spirit… or would there be nothing in death, would it be like closing one's eyes, entering peaceful darkness that hovers over eternity?

With his bulla gone, what is to protect him from the evil eye but for the purple stripes of his angusticlavia?

To think, a minotaur slain… a beast hewn from coiled clay by the poised hands of Proserpina herself, known in other, lesser tongues as Hardy, or so the many stories tell. Slain by the scourge of magic, of devilry thrown which cast the fatal blow.

And the men from the shadow whom had cast the minotaur down, for they were men, they were a large bunch, green and furnished with tusks like that of a wild boar… They had beset upon him with clubs and the back-end of axes, struck him once and laid him out upon the ground.

Looking at his captors now, Lucius could think only on how he should kill them.

They beset upon him with furious anger as soon as he awoke, beating him with switches as though he were cattle being lead to the slaughter. They made him walk to their place of refuge which was crested on the side of a cliff, well-situated to make it very defensible.

To assault _him_ , the son of a General… was one thing. But, to take that which had been given to him since his ninth day on earth… to take that which protected him from the avaricious eye of envy, it was tantamount to an assault not only to himself, but to the Virtus of his father as paterfamilias and also to the ancestors and the name of the family.

The fated bulla, how they had ransacked it from his neck. How they had overturned the silken purse that lay beside it and tipped out the fascinus, the lares familiaris and lares privati and the tiny cloves and cubebs and cinnamon of the east, the appearance of the fascinus first surprised them, but then they laughed and spoke in a barbaric tongue.

Lucius would kill them, as the Cerunii had done to the Corluvenii in the days of yore, when Sadera was a young tribe amongst bold wolves, when the other tribes sought to bring her down, to rape her women, to take her cattle, to steal her crops and settle her lands. Remember well the lesson of the Corluvenii, of those who captured the daughter of Amelius Paulus Cerunii and held her down and raped her, remember those whose bodies arise'd with the mid-day sun, the squeals of those crucified, men, women and children all. So complete was the destruction that the tribe of Corluvenii was extinguished within twenty years.

How he wished for revenge.

* * *

 **A day later.**

* * *

The sound of Decimus's tent-flaps resounded through the room, followed by the rustling of hamata. "Legatus Augusti!" The soldier stated in short-form, interrupting both Decimus and Gnaeus Septimus, whom were previously discussing on logistical matters.

Decimus flatly corrected the soldier. "Legatus Augusti Pro Praetore…" With a waving of the hand, Decimus bid the soldier to continue.

"The reports you requested from the Exploratores have come back." Having said this, the soldier handed over the rawhide-covered box which held several scrolls.

"Salvete." Decimus said, dismissing the soldier.

It took several minutes of reading before he understood the reports. What he had read, in hindsight, had seemed damning.

' _If I had but focused my time on scouting, rather than reinforcing our positions…'_ Decimus mused in his head. ' _It seems there exists minotaurs and orcs...'_

Decimus turned to face Gnaeus Septimus, Who was the son of Tiberius, one of Decimus's best friend. In honour of this friendship, Decimus had Gnaeus stationed as his Tribunus laticlavius, so that he, like his own son, could learn about the management and commanding of military forces at his lap. As it was, Gnaeus was leading Legio XIII… loaned to him by Decimus, it was a strong and trustworthy legion which had few quarrels, and was thus a relatively safe legion… so long as the leader was not fully incompetent and had the trust of his centurions and tribunes, all should be well.

Decimus passed the documents over to Gnaeus, who having read it, formed an opinion.

"What are we to do?" Gnaeus replied.

Decimus sighed for a moment, putting thoughts to mind. "What are you to do?" Decimus uttered. In his mind, he felt that it was time to test Gnaeus and his current abilities. He had shown himself to be acceptable when in the field, but he had never been in charge of an 'idle' legion, for which the challenges of leading were different than among more active troops, but despite being given a lesser legion it should be a safe post, given that the world outside was entirely foreign… and god's knew whatever Decimus would face himself looking for his son. Decimus needed the best.

Gnaeus seemed dumb-struck. "What am _I_ to do?" he repeated, his 'I' being elongated to give emphasis.

"Yes, What are _you_ to do…" Decimus stated. "Until _I_ say otherwise, henceforth… I am passing Legio XII Firmus into your hands. You will control my Legion, that is what you will do."

Gnaeus tried to decline. "Data Venia!"

"It is decided." Decimus stated in a decisive manner. "You will sit back and manage the Castra that borders the Gate. You will not fail me." Decimus then slammed his fists into his oaken table.

"What are you planning to do?" Gnaeus stated.

"I shall reconnoiter these strange villages and towns as stated in the reports, with Legio XIII and my Orcish auxiliaries in toe…" Decimus paused for a moment. "Not so much for conquest… but to show that I hold Imperium… I shall have a likeness of my son drafted by those with the art to do so… And I will nail them to every town, every village, to every damned tree… until he is found!"

Decimus calmed himself down after a moment. "I will find _my_ son again…" He said, more for himself than to his guest. "And if he is not found, I will have vengeance on those who would commit the act, on the Individual who has done so, or on the tribe or town which has willed such to be done, or to a nation if it be so." It was not so much a display of outward anger, but rather he was voicing the honest truth that came from his soul.

"Salvete, I had best leave you." Gnaeus replied, giving a salute before retreating. Upon reaching the end, however, he turned around with a sudden thought. "I shall send for some of my funditores to assist you, then. Quick of the foot are these men and their cast stones of lead, indivisible as though they were air itself in flight… injures men quick as the strike of the asp."

Decimus smiled in reply, before reaching for a sheaf of wheat.

Having left his tent a moment later, Decimus plaited the strands of wheat in a seven-stranded braid whilst he walked, the legionaries watching on with veiled curiosity and interest as he walked past the soldiers tents.

Once he had reached the centre of castrum, where the two pathways intersected, he stood before a tent that was off to the right side, this he entered. Before him laid the Lars militaris of Legio XIII, the scent of incense wafted through the tent, aiding a mysty air to the room.

The Lars militaris of Legio XIII was of a military man, riding astride his warhorse. What made him different than others, was that the man, rather than wielding a sword held upright, he held a cloth-wrapped child, an infant minotaur in his left arm, presenting him out to the world whilst his right hand held onto the imaginary reins of the horse (For as the statue was made from wood, it was impossible to depict the reins).

The Lars was painted with all the finest powdered paints that could be acquired from all across the Empire. Vivid reds made up the cape, vibrant whites made up the horse, lapis lazuli blues made up the eyes of the Lars and also of the man's military ring. So many colours made up the rest, mixed and matched by skilled painters.

With the plaited straw band, Decimus approached the lars and presented the band towards it. "I offer you this band, made from the wheat of this new land. If you promise to return my son to me, I promise to lead you to victory after victory in exchange, This I vow to you, Oh Lars of the XIII'th, protector of the Legion, bestower of fortune. Please accept my leadership over your men, As I pass from the Lars militaris of the XII'th, to you."

Having said this, Decimus tied the ends of the straw band together around the forehead of the Lars.

Turning from the statue thus, he walked out of the tent.

Approaching one of the soldiers outside a nearby tent, Decimus gave him an order. "Call assembly."

* * *

They spat in his food, the phlegm raising to the surface in frothy gobs, and they dared to think he would eat it.

For however long he had been captured, they had done this repeatedly, starving him thin… his dignitas bade him not to eat, nor to drink from his captors, not because they were his captors, but because they, through their actions, were his mortal enemies, who sought to humiliate him and drag him low.

' _Oh, impenetrable suffering,'_ He thought to himself. ' _Prudentia, I bid you hold… before I go insane of thirst.'_

For an hour, Lucius sat there, silently glaring. He could take no more and thus he recited. "Oh gods and goddesses above, I shall sacrifice ten sheep each to all the prime gods on the nearest kalends, or the one after if I cannot find enough to hand... if you shall set me free, this I vow as sacred truth."

The monster-men looked confused, each and every one. Five sets of eyes that Lucius wished he could gouge out, staring at him balefully.

"Bursga!" One of them shouted, before he walked up to the cage and rattled it with his fists.

- _Thrrwwrchh_ -

Lucius watched in complete silence as a javelin was hurled into the brutish monster's right shoulder. He slouched down low and shouted in anger as his companions quickly reached for their arms.

"Lok-Narash!" came the shout from his captors… the sound was frightening, yet the volume faltered before the shout that came from the ambushers.

" **Lok-tar ogar!"**

It was at that moment that a blue-skinned man jumped out from the side and thrust a spear into the man who rattled his cage… the impact of the weapon imparting it into his ribs, to which the blue man kicked the spear out and thrust it again and again to the man's sternum as the green monster was laid down on the ground.

A minotaur was next to enter the fray, using a large tree as a cudgel, brutally mauling one of the green-men to death.

Several of the large hulking green men, so much like his captors, threw themselves into the fray at the next moment, fighting against his captors. There was little form to their fighting, bashing and hewing with swords or axes they went about the field, it seemed as though it were more for show than effectiveness… and they exceeded in a brilliant showing of aesthetic might… like gladiators in the ring. Lucius wanted to recoil with fear and terror, those outside were ridiculously large… though to his eyes he thought that most of the combatants seemed to telegraph their attacks far-too-much, and yelled too many 'Wraaghs'... though Decimus himself was hardly a fighter and could not complain all that much. He was in awe.


	3. Chapter 3

Synopsis: The third war is over, a brittle peace rests over the Alliance and the Horde. But recent events have shaken this peace. Daelin Proudmoore's uprising, orcish incursions in Alliance territory. But how will the arrival of foreigners from a mystical gate change things?

Note: I will likely make some changes for the Gate side of things, and likely some name changes also. I mean, Pinacolada? Are you fucking serious?

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for my OC's.

* * *

 **Chapter 3:** Onwards to Bloodhoof Village!

* * *

"This will not work." Descended the voice of the Praefectus Orcus. "They do not speak our tongues, so I have heard."

Decimus paid no notion to the words spoken, as Hirpus wiped Decimus's bloodied face with rovings of wool that had been dipped in herb-scented milk.

"It is too late, far too late, to change my mind now. He must be there by now, meeting the Minotaurs of that village. Perhaps they mean to have him killed? Perhaps he will live? Regardless we are in the hands of fate, now." Decimus turned to face the Praefectus.

"I have walked from boundary to boundary, with each footstep, with the shedding of sacrificial blood and the partaking of the sacrificial flesh, I am committed to this…" Decimus paused for a moment. "Just as much as you, Bazusus, having been made sacer with the recitation of the Sacramentum, and all of my men having recited the sacramentum and myself, again being sacer, We are at the mercy of the gods." Decimus began to recline down on a silken mattress located within his tent, having been cleaned. "It does not matter if It does not work. This is a custom, And if they shall kill him, my reaction shall be just, and If I die, the gods shall claim me."

"Slave." Bazusus commanded. "Wine."

Hirpus had gone to retrieve the jug when Decimus stopped him. "I bid you desist from drinking this night, Bazusus. I have something planned for tomorrow."

Bazusus gazed upon Decimus for a moment, wondering what he meant to do tomorrow that was so important. "Posca, then."

Decimus tapped Bazusus over the shoulder. "Do not fear for what I have planned for tomorrow, It shall be fun. Will you dine with me?"

Bazusus declined. "I refuse, I must remain vigilant. I cannot let your second son die, I will not see his head hanging… like those rabbits did… from a pole… as they danced naked around it, laughing, smiling… full of cheer, taunting you as you watched from the ramparts, I will not see your second son suffer like your first."

Decimus frowned. "They raped him... They raped him, Bazusus!" Decimus shouted. "My son, And when they had their fun, the ambush leader cut off his cock and wore it around her neck, taunting my men with it, shouting vulgar insults. She cried, when I set my men to butchering her family, I could see it in her face, that expression. She knew that It was her fault, that she had been handed that which she had sewn herself, and I was the scythe that day before the grain. I made her watch, as she had made me watch, Made _us_ watch. And then, only then, with her children laid dead before me, did I kill her. She knew, she understood, when I plunged my sword deep into her chest, as her lifeblood poured out to the ground and her eyes lost their spark. I was so furious, so angry… If I were a younger man I would have had her raped by my men, but I didn't. I didn't. This was personal."

Hirpus poured posca for Bazusus, and with his cup filled, drank.

Having drunk the posca, Bazusus spoke with conviction. "Lucius will live, I will ensure it. Not for the sake of me, or my father, or my people, but because he is like a cousin to me."

Decimus looked to Bazusus. "I found myself wondering, many days later. Did she regret it? I wanted to know… even though it was a useless proposition. Even though she is dead and can offer no answer, I still wonder if she regretted it, at that moment. I wonder if it was the furore of battle that overran her senses, that sheer feeling we all face in the heart of battle, anxiousness, fear, anger, excitement. Those feelings that all of us feel. Did she even know who my son was? Did she hate him? Love him? Did she feel nothing at all? Was he just some fuck for her, thrown away and discarded after using him? These are the questions which I find myself wondering, In vein."

Bazusus raised his voice. "You were merciful. I would have kept her alive, tortured her for days."

Decimus agreed with his underling. "I was. I know I was." Decimus spat at the ground. "I'm getting old. I am not the man I used to be. I want peace, Bazusus, A place for my sons and daughters in a world where we do not kill each other, or stab each other in our backs. I am tired of the crucifixions, of sending men to their deaths in countless wars and skirmishes. But I'll fucking do it If I must."

Decimus looked over to the fireplace, listened to the crackling of the wood. "They are dead, that is my only consolation. They rest in their shallow graves, graves which Zorzal claims to have built himself, Which I have done, and which he takes credit for. And now he wants me dead."

Bazusus mocked Zorzal. "Zorzal takes it up the ass from Centaurs and sucks all the senator's cocks. I don't fear that spineless piece of shit, his words and his threats are as hollow as his anal cavity."

* * *

Thrall, we need aid. Now.

A force numbering roughly six-thousand strong are approaching Bloodhoof Village.

Baine Bloodhoof

With this written haphazardly, Baine rolled up the parchment scroll and bound it with small ribbon.

"Messenger, get this to Orgrimmar as quickly as you can!" Baine held his hand out

The messenger hastily retrieved the scroll and ran out of the tent as quickly as he could. Barely a second later, a second figure approached.

"Zarlman!?" Baine announced, a hint of confusion emerging in his voice as he spoke.

"There are two humans walking over on the horizon. You must see them!"

Baine nodded.

* * *

It had been a long day, for both the verbenarius and the pater patratus, having since parted ways with the third cohort of Legio XIII, which having been placed as the advance cohort, was provided with a large grouping of agrimensores, whose task was to find a suitable location for the camp fortifications.

"You're fucked." had been the general sentiment that had surrounded the advance cohort as they passed by, though these words were not spoken. There were some well-wishers who emerged as well.

Vibius however, was not one who cared for such sentiments. Positive or negative. He was only there for two things, to bring about the commencement of peace and understanding, or to bring about a state of war. For both these purposes, Vibius had the flintstone in his hip-bound rawhide satchel but he also had a corniolum shaft with a shaped, fire-hardened tip, which he held within his left hand and had propped the butt-end against his left shoulder.

It had taken several hours after passing the third cohort before they had seen the first minotaur, one armed with a bow. Though there was a sense of dread and fear, it was both tradition and purpose which bade them to speak to the armed monster, announcing themselves and the important duty with which they held. To strike down the fetiales was to declare unsanctioned war not only against Decimus, but against the whole of Sadera itself.

It was clear that the Minotaur held no understanding. The monster did, however, offer water. This, Vibius accepted, with a short spill upon the earth in honour of the gods and goddesses before Vibius parted his lips and drank. He turned and offered it to the chosen verbenarius, Caeso, who did not partake.

Vibius returned the waterskin back to the Minotaur, and with the parting word of 'Salvete', Vibius and his compatriot Caeso turned towards their next destination, just off on the horizon, a village of rough-hewn appearance, barbaric, yet despite this there were some aesthetic features that were admirable.

Caeso looked on with curiosity belying his youth, but Vibius saw only one thing that concerned him. The village lacked a gatehouse. After taking in a moment to absorb the view, both took to their duties and proceeded onwards with due haste.

Now that they were much closer, the duo could observe the village with greater clarity. Though Vibius was annoyed by the fact that the village did not have a gatehouse, there was a ropen canopy that rested on a bridge above some form of lake or riverway, which under certain situations could classify as a 'Gatehouse'. Before said gatehouse, though, were a large grouping of Minotaurs, all of them armed though relatively unarmoured, not as though this distinction mattered.

The Minotaurs rushed forwards with a haste that seemed to bely their size, for though they stood perhaps nine, maybe ten feet tall, they seemed to move as fast as horses. Vibius and Caeso could barely react, as they had stood just short of an actus apart by distance by that point of their journey.

They were tackled and bound, Vibius said nothing and did not protest against the minotaurs who had opposed him, and he remained silent until the exact moment when his captors had carried him over the bridge, and having been under the rope canopy which formed the 'roof', Vibius began his duty and proclaimed who he and Caeso were before speaking on the important duty with which they held.

As expected, the minotaurs had no understanding of the Saderan language.

* * *

It had been a week now, and a few days longer.

' _One, Two, Three, Four. Right outer under two, to the side, pull.'_

' _One, Two, Three, Four. Left outer under two, to the side, pull.'_

' _One, Two, Three, Four. Right outer under two, to the side, pull.'_

Murder. That one singular word. Murder, resounding, clarifying. To take a life outside of battle, a singular human child. And yet, was there any honour in killing an unarmed child?

This was the thought that occupied him, outside of his repeated mental rhythmic repetitions as he worked his hair into braids with his reflection cast from a river. There was clothing drying out on a line and far off in the distance the Tauren was off gathering herbs.

To his left, Roshah, A Troll of the Darkspear tribe, stropped the edge of one of his javelins nice and keen, It was razor-sharp to be sure, for the Troll could kill most game with a single hurl of his javelins and have them bleed out in no time at all.

Trok smiled to himself. The Tauren would not be there to look after the kid. Not this time around. There would be no more disagreements on what must be done.

Yet, Trok still was mired in the world of indecision. The rightness of fulfilling his duty to kill his enemies since birth was counterposed by the quandary of serving under Thrall. If Thrall ever found out about this… Trok would be exiled, if not executed.

And yet. It must be done.

' _He is a strain on our resources, our food.'_

Was one of his thoughts, justifying his action to come.

' _He eats our food, drinks our water… yet he does not speak in any sensible tongue.'_

' _He is human, like all humans. He must die.'_

The real reason, like many in the Horde, soon rang clear. ' _They kept us captive, used us as slaves. I will kill them all!'_

"The human has to die." Trok finally stated aloud, having finished his hair braids, knowing full-well that Roshah would hear him.

Roshah sneakily looked around to make sure that the coast was clear, before replying in the affirmative.

"Wa'll make it quick, mon, w'ill da others be t'akin a piss, no bettah time." Roshah quickly grasped a hand to his dagger that lay on his left hip.

Trok himself reached for his axe, whilst Roshah took to the left, Trok took to the right. The human noticed them, looked them in the eyes. And yet there was no screaming. They knew, accepted their fate with a shrug of the shoulder, yet they did nothing, no pissing of the pants, no murmuring or begging or pleading as he expected from pathetic humans. Something expected of most humans, but not this one.

Roshah spat on the human with a disdainful smirk. Then he held out the golden amulet that had come from the child and goaded, even though they wouldn't understand him. "Tank's for dah gold." Then, Roshah punched the human across the face.

Trok shoved Roshah off. "Just kill it already." Trok paused for a moment. "Or should I do it instead."

The human spat back at Roshah. Roshah was shocked, then furious.

Trok knew that the kid was going to die.

"I gonna take y'er ears!" Roshah shouted.


	4. Chapter 4

Synopsis: The third war is over, a brittle peace rests over the Alliance and the Horde. But recent events have shaken this peace. Daelin Proudmoore's uprising, orcish incursions in Alliance territory. But how will the arrival of foreigners from a mystical gate change things?

Note: I will likely make some changes for the Gate side of things, and likely some name changes also. I mean, Pinacolada? Are you fucking serious?

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for my OC's.

* * *

 **Chapter 4:** To speak

* * *

Down on his knees, his head held high, back straight, he seemed resplendent despite the days of wear upon his clothing and himself, despite the strand of spit that slowly dripped down from his forehead over to his left eye and trailing slowly downwards.

He knew and feared that this might happen. Deep down inside he knew. It was merely the way that the world worked.

Captives suffered the manacle or the spear-point, it was simply the way of things. He was a burden who ate and drank their resources, he could not speak their language, any other group would have 'counted up the sheep' concerning the cost and come to this singular conclusion. He was a burden. If they were not going to sell him as slave, put him to work as a quarrier or silver-miner, or hopefully not, as a catamite, they were liable to kill him. If Lucius were one of his captors, he would have done the same in their shoes, because this was simply the nature of the beast.

'This is just the way things are.' Lucius thought. 'I won't let them see me cry.'

"I'm sorry, Father, Would that I had more time." Turning his head, to face the blue man with the dagger in his hand. "Well, are you going to kill me?" Saying this, Lucius closed his eyes and presented his neck to his captors, craning his head to the left of the man with the axe, thinking that the killing blow would likely arrive from the man with the axe, rather than from the man with the dagger.

With his eyes closed, Lucius cringed inside. He did not want to die, but he cared that… If he was going to die, he had to do so with a good showing.

And so, inside, Lucius visualised the garden of his father's villa, reminisced on events within his life.

Most prominent was his memory of He and Hirpus, with figs and honey, a tray of libum-cakes with poppyseed-covered honey glazing over them lying to a side… He recited the stanzas and the poems of Papulius, recited the stories 'forbidden' by his father, the tales of war and battle from the 'foederate' lands. Lucius adored the Volraden slave, so much so that he was scarcely considered a slave in Lucius's eyes, but as an extended family member. How could he not. They had been through thick and thin. They were the same age and Hirpus had been born into the 'family', as Hirpus's mother herself was a house-slave, sold off by her horrible Volraden husband who put up his wife for sale to redeem a gambling debt.

Every day, Hirpus would escort him around in his forays in the city, from home to school and back again. They conversed freely, graffitied lines of "Lucius was here" and "Hirpus was here too" on house-walls and alleyways. When Lucius hassled 'low-born' children, Hirpus followed along in these endeavours, Wrestling and brawling.

They attended gladiator fights with regularity, Lucius had amassed a set of leaden figures he bought from the stalls, which he gifted to the Volraden on his eleventh birthday.

Rarely did Lucius give the Volraden orders… it only occurred when Hirpus angered Lucius in some way.

He remembered his father, too. Remembered looking on the masks of his forebears as they hung aloft on the walls, the candles burning behind them in the darkest of night made for a beautiful sight. Lucius was captivated by their faces hewn from an alabaster material, which made them look 'otherworldly'. Within this room, Decimus had told him that they would no longer live within the city of Sadera, instead, they would be moving to the mountains near where Hirpus's people had come from. He was ten then. He was excited by the prospect of meeting more Volraden, but the expectation turned to disappointment, they went to 'Orcish' territory instead. They lived in a Saderan town with a large population of Orcs who took to Saderan custom with an alarming quickness. His father once said "They are more Saderan than Saderans."

Though they would never be 'citizens' and were forbidden the toga, they wore lavish clothing in the latest Saderan styles, they spoke in the 'polite' Saderan tongue so prominently that one could mistake them for senators, they recited phrases and quoted the words of many poets to the point of oversaturation, they adopted Saderan cognomens and named their pets after important Saderan figures to the point that everything sounded like a theatrical play. It was amusing how well they had bought into the Saderan Ideal, despite the fact that they would never be considered true Saderans by many of the citizens within Sadera.

Bazusus, and Bazusus's father, Dargushar, left an impression on Lucius. Dargushar, whose people were the Burdaku, alongside the Yulare, Vuldar, Trelduki and Kurdale, were Amicus. Dargushar held authoritative power over his territory in everything but name, but paid Decimus and by extension the Saderan empire for the privilege, with a decent proportion of all the taxes within the territory being paid directly into Decimus's pockets.

Dargushar and the allied tribes fought against the tribes of the Valuki and the Ruldare, who became Stipendii after the losses suffered at the battle of Trevak. They paid the price for their treachery in the payment of extensive taxes and the enslavement of a given proportion of the populace.

Lucius thought on these things. He didn't want to go. He wanted to see his father, Hirpus and Bazusus again. He wanted to see his sisters again, all four of them. He even wanted to see his younger half-brother, born from Decimus's second wife.

He did not want to leave them, dying in a ditch with spit on his face. It would be cruel to them, to leave them in the dust with his fate unknown, unsure if Lucius had lived or died somewhere.

Lucius's bound hands shook with fear. Despite his best intentions, tears welled from his eyes. 'This is the end of Lucius.'

* * *

The air grew colder, wisps of fog covered the area in mist. Rays of sunlight emerged from the river, illuminating two silhouetted figures who slowly walked forwards over the freezing-cold water.

They had frozen time itself, for but the briefest moments. The bearded one was first to emerge from the mist, and a female emerged moments later. They walked slowly towards the teenager.

The female wiped the spit away from his face with the edge of her white robe, then she reached down towards his eyes and wiped away his tears. The male placed a scarlet-red cloak around the teenager's shoulders and placed a woolen cap over his head.

"With this I give you the voice. Speak for us."

They then walked away, to return back to the realm from which they came from. Back to Sadera.

* * *

Lucius looked up. He had felt strange, a weight had been placed over his shoulders.

He looked into the eyes of his captors, and they had looked back into his own, their gaze reflecting from his eyes back at them. They were just as shocked as he was, when he held out an arm towards his shoulder and he had felt the velvet that rested there.

"By Palamon's cock!?" Lucius exclaimed in surprise.

"You speak." Trok said, accusatively. "How!?"

Lucius looked up at his captor. "You can understand me?"

Trok rolled his eyes. "Yes."

Lucius grinned momentarily, as though he had forgotten the situation that he was in. "Tits!" Lucius uttered testingly. Feeling the words leave his lips, he had to let go of the litany of rude-words that held sway within his heart "Bitch, cunt, ass, hump, breasts, asshole, fuck!"

Roshah looked incredulous before he dropped the knife down to his hips, reholstering it. "Hah" he exclaimed, a smile forming on his face. "I won't kill yah dis day."

Trok ignored Roshah and looked down at Lucius as though he were an idiot. "Yes."

"Prick, dick, pecker, wick."

"Yes." Trok replied.

"Red, blue, orange, green?" Lucius listed off.

"Yes."

"Your mother is a whore and you smell like one too?" Lucius looked at the green man's facial expression with a smirk as the man frowned.

"Yes." Trok uttered, not realising that he was dealing with a teenager who had a new grasp on a foreign language.

Lucius smiled. "Oh, you are a whore? I apologise that the blue man has my money, though I am sure he would be happy to fuck you up the ass in my stead."

Trok was about to swing the axe downwards when Roshah stopped him.

"It's a good thing he is stopping you. I'm worth a lot of money, you know." Lucius proclaimed. "You've caught the Son of Decimus, the fucker of the hares."

Lucius then looked to the green man. "So why don't you use the axe properly, and use it to build a proper fire."

Trok looked to the human with anger before storming off.

Roshah spoke then. "How much money?"

"That depends on my condition. If you treat me well from now on, I will ensure that you and your friends are paid well. My father is to the south. If you have knowledge of the area, you might be able to find out more. My father's army is large, it would not be too difficult to track by those with the knowledge."

* * *

Zarlman looked on the object he had found within the human belongings. It was a small painting of some sort, depicting a human child with a golden amulet and a white robe with purple stripes on the sides.

"What should I do? They don't speak in any language that we know of." Baine bloodhoof spoke, looking to Zarlman for advice.

Zarlman handed the small painting over to Baine. "This must be the key piece of our puzzle."

Baine quietly looked over the artifact before placing it down over a table. "We need to inform the villages to look for a child with a golden amulet."

Zarlman sighed for a moment, as though in reflection. "Let us hope that an orc has not killed him, or that the centaurs have not captured him." Zarlman looked to Baine. "How are the humans that you have captured?"

Baine sat down on the ground. "They are fine, they are going to be fed and watered and guarded by my braves, they will be confined to a tent." Baine grabbed a nearby piece of parchment and began to write down. "I wish I was with my father." Baine muttered.

 **"Enemy army approaching, Enemy army approaching!"**

Baine quickly rose up and rushed out of the tent alongside Zarlman.

* * *

"Buccinators! Triumphal music." Decimus shouted, as the Legion appeared from the edge of the hill and into the visibility of the village that lay before them.

Not long after, the roars of trumpeting emerged in jolly tunes that demonstrated the might of Sadera. The legionaries craned out their necks and straightened their weary backs at the sound, cheers were issued forth by men. Their galea's were burdened by festive horse-hair plumes of triumphal and festive wear, in the configuration worn during empire-day feasts and triumphal processions, but rarely in battle.

They continued onwards until reaching roughly one stadion short of the village. Decimus had planned this.

His cavalry then rushed forwards towards the bridge, stopping before reaching the Tauren guards and hurling headless javelins bearing bundles of wrapped, bound straw which held small scrolls depicting Lucius in his tunic and with his bulla. Upon hurling these out, the cavalry retreated. With this, Decimus and his army retreated, the buccinators still playing their tunes.

Decimus had hoped he had confused them. More than that, he hoped that his display would give them something to fear for the next time they met. Next time would likely not be done in a friendly manner, but with actual weapons.

* * *

Don't forget to sacrifice a goat and make a whip out of its hide in order to whip your boyfriend/girlfriend/loved ones with. Happy Lupercalia!

Happy Valentines day!


	5. Chapter 5

Synopsis: The third war is over, a brittle peace rests over the Alliance and the Horde. But recent events have shaken this peace. Daelin Proudmoore's uprising, orcish incursions in Alliance territory. But how will the arrival of foreigners from a mystical gate change things?

Note: I will likely make some changes for the Gate side of things, and likely some name changes also. I mean, Pinacolada? Are you fucking serious?

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for my OC's.

* * *

 **Chapter 5** **:** New Captive's

* * *

The slums of Sadera, what else could be said about the vile place than to say that is was a shithole. Refuse dirtied the streets and brothels exuded the vile scent of come. Whores plied their trades near alleyways or on the piers waiting for the 'patronage' of the dockworkers and sailors.

Not the place any reasonable sort should ever find themselves in. But Arrius was not exactly of a reasonable sort, as his uniform proved. He was of the Frumentarii, whose general purpose was to supply the provisions of grain towards the legions… but they also served a secondary purpose that, whilst widely known, was spoken of only in quiet places.

"Do you have garrum from Toumaren?" Arrius stated towards the human merchant who stood before him, a man he knew only as 'Cloelius'.

"I only have the muria from Proptor, will this suffice..." Having heard that sentence, Arrius knew that he was in fact speaking with his contact. Arrius silently dipped his finger in one of the amphorae and sampled it, acting in his normal role as a frumentarius. Though they generally took the role of supplying grain to the legion, it was not unusual for them to 'speculate' in other goods.

But Frumentarii often dabbled in the world of the shadows too, as spymasters and secret agents.

Arrius cautiously looked to both sides of the street before passing the folded up document from his purse. Given that it would look suspicious handing over a document to a merchant in a stall in a place such as the slum, he then broadcast out loud enough into the street so that his action would seem legitimate. "I will be taking over your supplies... for the glory of Sadera."

Cloelius quickly pocketed the document before raising his voice, taking on the role of a terrified shop-keeper. "Please… My family needs this… take this instead and please… spare my family, I beg you." Cloelius then passed over a bag filled with silver denarii.

Arrius took the coin purse and counted out the coin. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, citizen."

Nobody acted in the defense of Cloelius, and Arrius didn't expect any. This was simply how things were in the slums.

* * *

Zorzal poured over the document that his agent had secured for him.

"So, the Orc-lover has requested for the aid of a Alae quingenaria and a Cohort of equitata quingenaria, specifically from regions used to an arid climate… Not enough men for you… hmmm."

Zorzal faced 'Cloelius' and smiled, It was false. "This is the only known report, yes? My father does not know of this?"

Cloelius simply replied in the affirmative. "Yes, Caesar."

Zorzal laughed. "Then I guess I shall do the sensible thing… and ensure that they arrive. With certain… stipulations, of course… the magnanimous man that I am, to do such a big favour, why I would deserve one in exchange, wouldn't I?"

"You most certainly would, Oh glorious Caesar."

Zorzal jested in Saderan fashion "I shall soon have my cock firmly seated down Decimus's throat!"

Cloelius joined in "A sound 'blow'... Caesar!"

* * *

Lucius was forlorn, seeing the state of the landscape before him. He could tell just by the barest glance, that his father's legion was here, once. How could he have missed this opportunity to see the clash first-hand… and worse still, a chance for glory!

Afterall, what else leaves a large rectangular indentation in the land itself, bordered by a shallow dug-in moat with buried caltrops, these being sharpened iron spikes embedded inside a wooden dowel and tamped down into the earth. Outside of these moats lay even more caltrops, fashioned from iron and forged with a barbed tip on each side, who else but the Saderans would design the barbed caltrops to counter foot, paw and hoof?

What else leaves men hobbled before the ground, crying out in pain… unable to withdraw the dug-in iron tips for fear of pain and injury. It was no less than having a shield struck by pilum, because having stepped on one rendered one militarily ineffective, and the barb made their pulling out more difficult, the only aid by which was to stick the quills of feathers on both sides of the intrusion and thus extract the barbed caltrops without heinous injury.

And what else leaves shallow dots in the land itself but the wooden limbs of the Sudes, three sharpened stakes hewn from oak and tied around the middle, emplaced to counter cavalry and to impede movement?

When it came to Lucius's world, Only the Saderan's were so organised and precise when it came to camp fortifications. Even when the Saderans camped in a region where it was bare of trees to make more permanent fortifications, the wooden stakes could be used to enclose the outer border of a camp… and Saderan's always made ditches that encircled the fortification. At the first sign of an attack, legionaries with willow-woven baskets ran around the enclosure and threw the caltrops from the basket like one cast seeds onto farmland. The nature of such an implement ensured that there was always a spike pointing upwards, no matter how they were thrown or placed on the ground.

In this manner, hundreds and even thousands of caltrops could be broadcast out in rapid pace. The inward-sweeping bolt-throwers known as manuballistra would have their woolen blankets removed and their bolts cast in the direction of the enemy. At the same distance lead glandes would be thrown from the slingers… and when the enemy came closer and closer, archers and crossbowmen would make themselves known.

It appeared to Lucius, seeing all the dead that were dropped outside the border of the 'castrum' that they quickly discovered this for themselves.

Trok examined the corpse of a dead centaur, looking at the bolt that had embedded itself deeply into his flesh and emerged almost out the otherside, with only the wooden fletchings stopping the bolt from going completely through.

Lucius looked at the wound and could not help himself from reciting a line of Lymachus's 'On the campaign of Gaius Symmachus'.

"Lo, far was the distance, near Stadion's depth, that on the horizon was unfurled the orcish standard, their defiance of Sadera well-known." Lucius then truncated several sentences so that it became relevant. "So fast the dart flew that it caught the orc unawares, and from his chest he bore the dart which dragged him to the afterlife."

Roshah looked at the boy with a questioning gaze. "What dat even mean?"

Ohanpa Earthtalon, the Tauren of the band pulled the bolt from the body and said but one singular word. "Ballistae."

Lucius smiled upon hearing that word. "I don't know how you know that word… but perhaps your 'Horde' has an equivalent to our ballistae?"

Having been able to speak the language since he had been gifted a cloak from the goddess Lae, goddess of learning, and the felt hat from the god Ilanus, god of knowledge and studying, he had been able to understand all that they spoke. He had thus learned the basics of the Horde… but whenever he spoke about the Humans and the Alliance, the band refrained from speaking.

Ohanpa replied with "The Night-elves prefer them." And after saying that, he snapped the bolt in half before dropping the pieces down to the ground.

Lucius did not know what these 'Night elves' were, but now that he had learned what he had, he corrected Ohanpa. "No. That bolt was not fired by ballistae, because our ballistae are known in some tongues as Lithboloi… stone-throwers. For the purpose of demolishing structures, hurling incendiaries and harassing opponents from long range, stone or lead are better suited than bolts, as such we Saderan's do not use them often, unlike the Butt-fucker Grekkians of old. That bolt came from what we call the scorpion, miniature artillery pieces meant for the field."

"Hmmmm." Ohanpa hummed out, as though in thought.

"Den I guess you tell da truth, den, 'bout yah fadah." Roshah spoke. "Yah bettah not lie bout dah monies now."

"Watch your language." Drukil Lonefire said, a disapproving look smothered his facial features. While Lucius thought that he was 'of a good sort', he was also a father of several children and thus was the most 'prudish' of the band. He did not like it when Lucius cursed, swore or made crude remarks. This was quite a shock to Lucius, whose experience with orcs like Bazusus had given him the belief that Orcs were often crude, even when they had acquired a 'taste' of Saderan custom. Not as though the Saderan's weren't crude themselves, as heavens knew Lucius himself was a crude sort, not a moralist at all. Slightly traditionalist, perhaps… but that was due to his upbringing.

"Don't give me that look." Lucius remarked. "If you've ever met their sort, you'd know that keeping your ass to the wall is the safest course of action. They're a good sort…" Lucius placed his hand against his cheek, as though he were a gossiping wife "But they're a bit too frisky with the man-loving… if you catch my meaning. Not like us Saderans at all, no balls, no Viri"

Ohanpa frowned on the subject matter at hand, but was curious enough to raise a question. "What is viri?"

Lucius almost lost it at that moment, almost consigning himself to a laughing fit. However, he decided to go with the non-rude reply because of his respect for Ohanpa. "Vir is… Manliness. A sense of being… A man. A strong man, a brave man. We call men of virtue 'virtus' in our tongue, because these are traits admired in men. This sense of 'vir' must be tempered with discipline." Lucius did not go on to mention several of the 'peculiarities' that also surrounded that word.

Trok raised his voice a moment later. "Looks like your father is nowhere to be found, Brat."

Lucius turned to face Trok. "Given that the stakes have been transplanted and that there are no tents… and no camp-followers, my father has likely moved to a more defensible location. He would be easy to…"

"This one is different from the rest." Drukil remarked, pointing towards a dead centaur.

Lucius gave a quick glance, noting the armour of the dead centaur he quickly realised it was one of his fathers.

The dead centaur kicked… clearly it was not yet 'dead' so Drukil readied his axe to lever down the killing blow towards the centaur's head.

" **Stop!"** Lucius shouted. "He's one of my father's allies. Does he look like one of those unkempt savages to you?"

Trok snarled at Lucius, both because it was a centaur that the boy was trying to save, but also because the usage of the word savage struck a chord with him " **It's a Centaur!"**

Lucius dabbed his forehead with the palm of his left hand before making a remark. "Your centaurs… perhaps. But not ours."

Ohanpa's tail flicked lightly in agitation. "Your planet has Centaurs?"

Lucius took a moment to collect himself, shrugging off Trok's anger with a sigh. "After defeating them in several battles… they became signatories of a treaty… in our tongue foedus. They are obliged to supply the Saderan empire with a set number of soldiers each year, as well as an annual tax rendered from each household in exchange for their autonomy under the right of Jus Gentium, their people rendered peregrini in our tongue."

"What is this Jus?" Drukil questioned.

"It is the law of the 'Gentes'... the law of the peoples. We Saderans hold that it is the customary right of all sentient peoples, to be judged under the law of the people… and that every man has this right, even our enemies, for it was bestowed to us all by reason."

The group quietly listened to what Lucius had stated. While they barely grasped the full scope of the words, they understood the implication that 'all' people were entitled to this 'right'.

Lucius then pointed towards the centaur. "Now could someone check on his condition… I will not be remiss if he is too-far gone and given a quick mercy, but if he can be healed my father will be further indebted to you."

Ohanpa was the one who followed up on this task. Given that Ohanpa had some experience in the healing 'arts', he was able to summon up magic which mended the injuries that were sustained on the Centaur's body. After some time looking on at the display of magic, the Centaur awoke with a furor, kicking out.

"Ak-Kweyette!" came the foreign sound which was heard by the members of the horde, emerging from Lucius's lips and untranslated.

More foreign words emerged from the Centaur… and Lucius conversed with the Centaur, who quickly got onto his 'feet' and looked to-and-fro, examining Lucius's captors.

Trok snarled after a moment, raising an accusative tone. "What are you conversing about?"

Lucius retorted back with a smirk. "Afraid? Don't be." Lucius then spoke back to the Centaur before facing Trok again. "He says that he will come along with us, absent weapons. He also wishes to inform you that If I am killed, my father will wreak vengeance."

Trok calmed down for a moment before giving a harsh glower towards the Centaur, as though thinking that showing outward hostility would instil a sense of fear. It notably did not work as the centaur walked towards Lucius, who tapped his left fist against his chest before holding his arm outstretched… as though showing that the centaur considered the authority of the child as being more important than that of his captors.

Lucius nodded his head. Though he effectively held no imperium and thus had no actual power or seniority over the centaur, the fact that his father was the centaur's commander gave him effective control over the centaurs actions.

Ohanpa eyed down the Centaur just like the rest of the horde members before making a general statement. "Let's camp down for the night." This statement was near-immediately agreed upon by all members except for the centaur, who held no understanding of their language.

When the campsite had been erected, it's location chosen wisely within the previously evacuated castra, small-talk emerged from the horde group who spoke amongst themselves. The centaur sat himself down near Lucius.

"What are they saying?" the centaur asked with a sense of curiosity and partly of fear.

"Nothing of importance, the prudes. They shudder like scared women before the dick when it comes to my use of language." Lucius answered.

The centaur gave a small laugh. Given that centaurs tended to be the opposite of prudish, Lucius knew that he could now have a 'proper' conversation with someone just as interested in jests and dick-jokes as himself. "In your case, they would not be very scared…"

Lucius smiled. "I'd watch what you say, centaur. My father's father gave your kind a sound fucking."

The centaur looked down for a moment before retorting back. "I heard your Caesar likes to take it up the ass from one of 'our' lot.". The centaur then faced the teenager. "Name's Vinicius..."

"From where do you hail?" Lucius inquired. Vinicius replied back with pride. "Up near 'Teltus' way."

Lucius thought on the subject, having heard about the land within that region. Summing up his usage of the vulgate tongue, he spoke as though he were plebeian "Good land up there, I've heard. Plenty of head of cattle there too, good money to be made there."

Vinicius agreed wholeheartedly with what he heard. "Was a drovers boy. Used to go down to Italia with my father, we'd return back to the owner with a bunch of denarii and dad took a cut of the earnings... we, my father, mother, two brothers and five sisters had a house and a slave til' bandits took his life couple years past and I joined up to fight."

Lucius looked at Vinicius with a sense of curiosity. "How are your relatives?"

"Last I heard… good. Bless the viae militares that words come swiftly."

Lucius and Vinicius remained quiet afterwards, soaking in the environment and attaining a sense of growing trust between one-another. This environment was quickly shattered by a shouted call.

" **Fuck me It's Lucius! Praise the gods and fuck ill-fortune!"**

Lucius and Vinicius quickly turned their heads to spot an orc armoured in mail with the broken shafts of several arrows hanging on by the riveted links. It appeared as though the arrows had not pierced deeply into the flesh but rather gave shallow cuts. The man was obviously deeply exhausted and delirious with what seemed to be a large bruise appearing at the top of his head, his galea must have fallen off during the battle or been knocked off.

 **"Bazusus!"** Lucius shouted, before he even knew it he had jumped up into the air and was rushing towards him. _'_ _Curse decorum, curse everything for just this moment!'_ thought Lucius as he ran forwards. **"Uncle Bazusus!"** Lucius shouted again. Though he was not his uncle, Lucius took to calling him such because of the deep familiarity between the two. Bazusus was like an uncle to Lucius, teaching him things, some things sensible but some bad things also, such as a wide variety of orcish rude words.

Before he knew it, Bazusus was struggling to maintain his footing as Lucius near-tackled him with the ferocity of his bearhug, but this moment was short-lived as Bazusus saw enemies moving on the horizon. He violently shrugged Lucius off of himself.

 **"Stay down!"** Bazusus shouted, withdrawing his gladius as he stood over Lucius, ensuring that the profile of his body provided safety for Lucius. Lucius craned his head upwards and saw the commotion, Bazusus squared off against Roshah, who maintained his distance and threatened to throw his javelin but refrained for fear of striking Lucius. Ohanpa stomped deeply into the ground as he rushed forwards as though he was going to bull-rush.

" **Stop!"** Lucius shouted, but Bazusus was not buying it.

Trok had managed to join up with the other horde members, his face showing a momentary shock before he steeled himself.

"It is okay, Bazusus. I have things in hand." Lucius uttered. "They have not harmed me and I can speak their language."

But Bazusus remained firm. He then grasped at Lucius's left hand and pulled the teenager up from the dirt. Bazusus then pointed towards Roshah with his free hand, snarling at the gall of the man who wore his bulla. Bazusus then shouted back. "If you can speak their language… tell that fucker that I'll be pissing on his corpse within a heartbeat unless he returns the bulla back to you right now!"

Lucius returned the threat and was greeted by a loud raucous snarl from the Darkspear troll before he threw the bulla towards Lucius's feet. Lucius quickly picked it up off the ground and secured it around his neck. He was immediately comforted by the familiar weight of the bulla and by the leather pouch which held his lares privatii, lares familiares and the fascinus.

Only once this happened did Bazusus sheath his gladius. Then, with a firm step he threw the sheathed weapon towards them. Trok retrieved it from the dirt.


End file.
